Falling
by maigonokaze
Summary: Twice now, Sam has seen friends shot out of the sky. Those memories haunt him through his time in the Raft. Sam-centric.


Sam flattened his arms against his sides and his wings folded flat down his back. Air-born particles of sand still hovered in the air in the wake of the recent sandstorm, and the grains lashed his face as Sam sped through the air.

Riley tumbled. One mangled wing was still connected to the pack on his back. The lopsided chunk of metal spun his limp body in the air, throwing Riley in tight loops as he plunged toward the ground.

There was a chance. There had to be. Sam shot through the air, diving toward the ground with reckless disregard for the altimeter that beeped at him in alarm.

A plume of dust exploded upward when Riley hit the ground. Sam snapped back, his body jerking in midair as his wings burst out on his sides. He'd left it to the last possible second; the ground rushed up at him as the sudden shift in momentum drove the breath from Sam's chest. When he hit the ground, he tucked his wings and allowed himself to fall and roll to absorb the impact of the descent he hadn't entirely slowed.

Sam knew. He knew before he ever touched the body.

Sam's heart thudded in his chest, and his ribs felt constricted in a way that - for once - had nothing to do with the binder he wore under his uniform. "Riley?" Sam's voice cracked, the word emerging from his throat high and foreign in his ears, evoking an unpleasant shudder that he did not have time to deal with right now. He dropped to his knees next to his copilot's body. His hands moved with a field medic's steady sureness, even as his mind reeled away from the knowledge of what was in front of him.

* * *

Years later, Sam sometimes still woke to the sickening sensation of falling/diving toward the ground at max speed and pulling up only enough to avoid breaking his legs on landing.

Mostly he woke when he dreamed. Every brutal detail of that day stayed ingrained in his memory. Night after night, he saw Riley get hit. He took out the truck on the ground that had fired the shot. He dove after Riley, even knowing it was too late. He hit the ground with a force that reverberated up his shins even as his knees bent and his body tucked into a roll. But even asleep, the memory of seeing Riley broken on the ground like that was too painful to remember. Some part of his sleeping mind managed to yank him out of the dream every time, just before he got to Riley's side. Just before his hands touched his friend, looking for vital signs that were no longer present.

But sometimes he woke to the same sickening lurch in his stomach, with no memory of that night anywhere in his dreams. Those were the nights that he woke to an empty bed, when Steve had a mission that didn't require the rest of the Avengers or - more often - when Steve was traveling for public appearances. The propaganda aspect of Captain America hadn't stopped just because he'd been frozen in ice for half a century.

If Steve was there, Sam usually managed to calm his pounding heart as he stared into the darkness of their bedroom and listened to the steady sounds of Steve's breath. He'd had plenty of practice at this by now, and as soon as he'd centered himself, he would just roll over and go back to sleep.

Waking up alone was harder. The adrenaline spike that ripped him out of sleep pulsed through his body until he practically vibrated with barely constrained tension. Those nights he usually just turned on a light and read, or reached for his phone and found something to keep his mind occupied until the sun came up and he could go for a run and start the day.

Waking up alone in the Raft was harder still. The dreams didn't used to come this often, but now every night Sam found himself shuddering awake in the darkness, with the feel of rushing air still fresh on his skin. Now the dreams were worse. And they weren't just of Riley.

* * *

Sam and Rhodey had never met before the Avengers - they'd served in entirely different units all through their military careers. Rhodey's path through MIT and up the command chain as liaison to Stark Industries was a far cry from Sam's own experience in medical school and para-rescue. But they had met, brought together by their work in the Avengers, and had become fast friends.

This issue over the accords was never supposed to get this big. They had been fighting each other, yes, but nobody that day had ever intended to strike a lethal blow. Well, nobody but T'challa. Cat-king was a different story, the only one on the field that day who didn't have personal history with everyone they were fighting with and against - or at the very least, respect and hero-worship, as in the case of Spiderkid.

But then Sam dodged a strike that Vision had aimed to slow him down, and that strike had taken out Rhodey. Just like all those years ago, Sam raced downward, chasing a friend he couldn't reach in time.

Rhodey lay in a small crater, earth blasted aside by the weight of his suit and the impact of his fall. Sam ran to him, but Tony got there first. Was it better? For Tony to be the first to see him? For Tony's hands to be the ones prying open the War Machine suit, searching in vain for vital signs? Sam didn't know. If it had been him on the ground, he wouldn't have wanted that job for Steve. But maybe… if Rhodey was still alive, maybe it was best that Tony got to him first. That the last human hands Rhodey felt were those of his lover.

Sam didn't know. All he knew was that by the time he hit the ground next to them, Tony's blast of grief caught him full in the chest, a searing burst of anguish amplified by the suit he wore. If Rhodey had been alive when Tony got to him, Tony's reaction told Sam he wasn't anymore. Sam was the only one on the field who could possibly have helped Rhodey; the only one with any real medical training. Even blind with grief, surely Tony wouldn't have pushed Sam away if there were any hope left.

Knocked back by Tony's grief and unwilling to intrude where he was clearly unwanted, Sam waited. Waited in a cluster with Clint, Wanda, and Scott, until the local police showed up and took them into custody. They could have fought back; could easily have overpowered and escaped the local authorities. But the sight of Rhodey on the ground had taken the fight out of all of them.

By the time they realized where they were headed, the chance for resistance had passed.

The guards at the Raft separated them immediately upon arrival. Sam allowed the guards to lead him into a small room. His breath caught in his chest when they ordered him to strip.

He wasn't surprised by the strip-search - it would be standard procedure at any prison intake, let alone a facility as secure as the Raft. But he balked nonetheless, his muscles stiff with refusal until a guard prodded him with a shock baton.

It was a low setting, Sam knew that, but still enough to drop him to his knees. Sam grimaced as he stood. He kicked off his shoes and socks, sliding them across the floor to one of the waiting guards who put them in a bag for inspection. Then his pants - his pockets had already been emptied before they even boarded the plane from Leipzig Airport. He stood in his boxers and shirt, hesitating. Then in one swift motion, his face blank with resignation, he reached for the neckline at the back of his shirt and tugged it over his head, revealing the skin-tone binder underneath.

"I don't suppose you'll be issuing me another of these?" he said as he peeled the binder up and tossed it on the ground with the rest of his clothes.

"I'm sorry, sir," one of the guards answered. "Only prison regulation clothing. I'll put in a requisition for you, though."

Sam grimaced as he dropped his boxers and packer to the floor. If the Raft was anything like the Air Force, he could guess at just how long it would take. After a perfunctory squat-and-cough, someone handed him a set of clothes and showed him to a bathroom where he could dress in private.

"Here." A guard tossed a white bundle to Sam and he caught it without thinking. "In case your feet get cold." Sam looked at the wad of fabric in his hand. There was a pair of socks already in his arms, with the rest of his standard-issue prison attire. But the extra pair… Sam's eyes flicked to the briefs that lay atop the stack. Not his preferred choice of underwear, but the tight briefs and an extra pair of socks would serve. Sam nodded to the guard before stepping into the bathroom and getting dressed. It wouldn't be the first time in his life that he'd resorted to a poor man's packer.

Then he was marched through the Raft - he got only a brief glimpse of his compatriots each in their cells already - and placed in a cell.

* * *

Time stretches in captivity.

Tony came. Sam heard the anger in Clint's voice as they spoke, but he had no energy to muster up that same emotion in himself. "Rhodes?" That was the only question that mattered.

"We're flying him to Columbia Medical tomorrow." Tony's voice was flat, with none of the anger that had intermingled with grief when Sam first approached him and Rhodey on the ground.

Sam felt a flash of relief run through him. He'd wondered. Clint said he thought he heard Rhodey talking after he hit the ground, but they couldn't be sure, none of them. "So…" So he's alive. Sam couldn't make his mouth form the words.

"Fingers crossed," Tony replied.

* * *

The dreams continued. Different, now that Sam knew Rhodey was alive - alive and probably stable, if they were transporting him at this point. Any emergency transport would have happened just after the accident; by now they would only transport a stable patient. Sam still knew nothing about his condition, about his prognosis. After that fall, Rhodey could have any number of lifelong complications resulting from his injuries. But still. Alive. It was more than Sam had dared hope for.

He wished he could write a letter, to tell Rhodey he was sorry. Sorry that he had dodged the shot meant for him, only to watch it hit Rhodey instead. Because that hit might have taken out his wings, but Sam's wings had something the War Machine didn't: a parachute. If Sam had just taken the hit, he would have been grounded, yes, but Rhodey would have never been shot down. Sam wished it had happened that way; wished he could tell Rhodey that. But the Raft had strict regulations, and "no contact between prisoners and the outside world" was chief among them. Stark was a special case, of course. There's always a special case to be made for someone rich enough, white enough, and well-connected enough. Sam was glad of that exception, though, because now at least he knew Rhodey was alive.

The monotony of time marched on. Sam could talk to the others, and sometimes they did, but the guards were always watching and listening. Their presence an icy dampener on any conversation. Wanda wasn't doing so good. Sam knew that, from the brief things she said, and he could tell Clint worried about her too. Days - weeks? - in confinement had taken their toll on all of them. But for the men on the team, they at least had the freedom to move about their cells unencumbered. (Sam wondered when he had started thinking of that as "freedom".)

The supervisors on the Raft had ordered Wanda placed in a straight-jacket immediately upon arrival, and it had not been removed since. Eating, drinking, using the toilet on her own… all of these basic functions were denied Wanda, who was forced to rely on the guards' assistance.

* * *

Sam woke to darkness. Or at least, as dark as it ever got in the Raft. Overhead lights were off, but a soft glow still filled his cell - just enough that the guards could keep a constant watch on their prisoners.

Sam lay still, his eyes closed. He could still see Rhodey - no, Riley? Which one had it been this time? on the ground. He could still feel the reverberation in his legs from the impact of his landing. He had run to Riley as fast as he could, he could see the shallow rise and fall of his chest underneath the pararescue uniform. Sam reached for his medkit, but was flung backward as Tony crouched over Riley - no, it was Rhodey this time. Rhodey, not in camo and wings, but encased in a metal exoskeleton, his chest unmoving.

Sam breathed slowly, forcing his heart to return to something approximating a resting rate. Something had woken him. Something other than his dream. He listened. Snoring, from Clint's cell. A frantic whisper of fingers against cloth, from Wanda's. As bad as the days were, sleeping in a straight jacket was even worse.

"Behind you," Wanda warned.

A dull thud sounded from near the guardpost.

Sam sat up, finally turning and opening his eyes. The startled snort from Clint's cell told him he wasn't the only one snapped awake by Wanda's warning.

Steve lowered the last guard to the ground, placing her alongside her fallen companions. The limp form gave no indication as to the guard's well-being, but Steve's gentleness indicated that he had at least tried for non-lethal incapacitation.

Steve looked up, his gaze seeking Sam's. Something in Steve softened when their eyes met, and Sam could see the weight lifting off of him.

At the touch of Steve's fingers on the control panel, the doors began to slide open. Sam couldn't even feel resentment when his boyfriend ran to Wanda first, freeing her from the straightjacket before coming to check on him.

When they finally stepped into each other's arms, Sam felt Steve's sigh of relief to match his own. They clung together, each breathing in their partner's familiar, comforting scent. "You're here."

At the sound of Sam's voice, Steve pulled back just enough to look him in the face. Salty tear-tracks glistened on his cheeks. "I'm here," he answered. "And we need to get out of here."

Sam nodded, squeezing Steve to him once again before stepping away. "You've got a plane?"

"Bucky's on deck with a quint," Steve said. "And we stopped off in Leipzig, took back all the equipment they confiscated from you on the ground."

Sam gave a cocky grin. "My wings are here?"

"And…" Steve paused, reaching into a pouch at his waist. "I didn't know what would have happened to yours when they brought you here. So I picked up an extra from home."

"You went to our apartment? Idiot," Sam scoffed. But when Steve handed him a binder - this one was white; his only skin-tone one was the one they'd taken upon arrival at the Raft - he couldn't find it in him to be upset at Steve for taking the risk. "Cover me?"

Steve nodded. He turned to face outward, toward where Clint, Scott, and Wanda had gathered near the guard station. Behind his back, Sam stripped off his prison-issue shirt. He flipped the binder inside out, put his head and arms through, and rolled it down over his chest. Seconds later, he emerged from the cell with Steve at his side, and the escaped prisoners headed up to the deck where Bucky waited in an idling quintjet.

Everyone else piled into the plane, but Sam had been cooped up in a metal box too long already. He'd have to get onboard eventually; his wings were not designed for long-distance travel. But he could catch up with them and board in the air. He had a few hours in him before he'd need to board, and then could ride the rest of the way in the plane. He stepped into his flight-suit and strapped on his wings.

The quint took off, rising up into the dense clouds. Sam waiting for the downdraft to clear before racing toward the edge of the platform.

He launched himself into the air, falling wildly toward the ocean surface before snapping his wings out and rising. He could taste the salt spray on his lips where the waves broke against the Raft and flung their droplets into the air. He spun as he shot upward, relishing the rush of fresh air against his body. Sam rose, breaking through the fog and turning to follow the quint toward Wakanda. And freedom.


End file.
